Righting The Ship
by shan14
Summary: The call comes from Charlie when she's been home almost three months.


**A/N:** Written because I've always adored Mackenzie & Jim's relationship and because Charlie is a sneaky bugger who lies a lot and because Will just needs someone to cuddle him, basically.

* * *

When Mackenzie first arrives home she expects nights to be easier.

Finally she has a warm bed, a safe apartment – pillows and soft blankets and the hum of traffic on the street below. The first week home she sleeps like the dead – her head hits the pillow and she's out without minutes, waking only hours later with the sun sitting high in the sky and her head feeling dull and heavy, like she could sleep for hours more. It's not _good _sleep, but it's safe sleep and the difference is only noticeable after two years spent in crumbling buildings and army camps and occasionally, self constructed shelters.

After a week she actually starts believing she'll be okay – that when she finds another job for herself and Jim and can get back into the routine of late nights and even later mornings, her sleep pattern will return and she'll start losing the dark rims around her eyes.

She feels exhausted now like she's never known it. At least over there she'd been pumped full of adrenaline – whether it be the thrill of a story or late nights spent trying to catch correspondents on American time or those few moments when things had been beyond dangerous and her heart had beat so hard she was afraid it might stop.

But at home she has time to stop and sit; time to think and be aware of the passage of time as it slinks through the minutes. She finds herself slumped in the lounge in the small apartment she's renting, unable to move her limbs even if her life depended on it, as her body's catching up on two years of constant noise and movement and her brain doesn't know what to do. One moment she's watching bad daytime television and the next she's struggling to contain the feeling to run – like it's still dangerous to stop and take the time to breathe – and her limbs and heart ache with the discordance of it.

She wakes after a week and a half with her throat tight and aching. There's a strange, metallic taste on her tongue and her head is pounding in time with her heartbeat. She blinks rapidly to clear her eyes but can't make out anything in the dark apartment and when she realizes she's awake for no reason she lets her head drop back onto the downy pillow.

Usually it would only take minutes to find sleep again; but an hour passes and she's still staring at the ceiling and then after another all she can feel is a terrible, rolling sense of fear.

She calls Jim on instinct and then apologizes three times when he's drowsy, gruff voice comes over the phone, only to hear him say fondly, "Stop, Mackenzie. It's okay," and then shyly, "I can't sleep either."

They talk until the sun starts to rise though the half shut blinds about stupid things – bad television and celebrity gossip they'd missed and what station they'd like to work for and Mackenzie studiously avoids mentioning that she'd found the courage two days earlier to turn on ACN.

Will had looked good, and that had probably been the worst part. She hasn't seen him in almost three years and his eyes are still startling and clear and her toes had curled at his voice because she remembers what he sounds like. She knows his words and his shouts and his groans and his climaxes but she especially remembers the rumble of his voice in her ear from behind a news desk.

She wants so badly to see him again in the flesh but unless he asks her she's not going near him.

"I was thinking of having lunch at this Italian place my roommate suggested," Jim tells her, and Mackenzie tries to focus on his voice instead.

"That sounds nice," she responds, picking at the corner of her bedspread. She's not moved from the blankets since she awoke hours earlier and her toes are toasty warm and curled tight.

"Would you like to join me?" she hears Jim ask, and it takes her a moment to process his words.

She knows what he's doing, drawing her out into the world with the promise of his presence and his ear to listen, and she can't help the tight feeling of gratitude that swells in her chest as she says yes. They choose a time to meet and then Jim wishes her goodnight with a soft, knowing voice and she can picture his fond smile perfectly.

She doesn't know where she'd be if not for Jim Harper – dead, probably; or a lot less stable than she's managing to feel.

When she'd first been injured he'd held her hand the entire ride to the army base and as the surgeon had stripped off her clothes and prodded at the white, swollen flesh of her stomach and her eyes had rolled to the back of her head because the pain was almost indescribable – white and hot and arching through each of her nerves – Jim had been standing stoic in the corner of the room because he'd whispered a promise that he'd not leave her.

Technically she's his boss but they're relationship has always been that of family; ever since Mackenzie convinced him to follow her half way around the world and Jim smiled and nodded like it sounded wonderful. She loves him like her brother and would stand by him through anything – including a shot to the behind – and now that they're back home she's loath to let that relationship flounder.

She's never been very reliable, but for him she wants to be.

Later that day at lunch Jim hugs her when she enters the restaurant and she can't help but hiccup and laugh into his shoulder, trying to hold back tears, because the rest of the world continued whilst they were away but he's the only one who understands how alienated she feels from it.

ooo

It's not that Mackenzie's experience in Afghanistan and it's surrounds was constantly life threatening.

She wasn't in trenches for months on end, nor was she often in any real danger.

Most of the time she was operating out of army camps, or bureau offices alongside other journalists – there were four walls and a kitchen and beds and computers. They had a coffee rotation list that sat on the fridge and whosever turn it was was responsible for ensuring a steady supply of hot beverages. When the sun went down and only the soft orange glow of a burning car, or a bonfire could be seen out the windows, the group would hold poker tournaments and charades night's and drink beer into the early hours; most nights were bordering on normal – there was fun and camaraderie and a bed waiting at the end.

But the illusion of safety was just that – an illusion.

No matter how safe Mackenzie and Jim had felt there was always the threat of gunfire, or an explosion, or god forbid an insurgency at any moment.

The nights were often cool and calm; but sometimes they were filled with far off fighting and screams and Mackenzie can't close her eyes anymore without expecting it – she doesn't know how to teach her body that she's no longer under threat.

ooo

The call comes from Charlie when she's been home almost three months.

She misses the first call whilst she's in the shower and the second is almost rung through when she flies through her bedroom to pick it up.

She doesn't recognize the voice immediately but it only takes a second to click and when it does she has to stop and pull the phone from her ear a moment – her chest stutters and Charlie's voice is familiar in the best possible way.

"Hi," she breathes and he chuckles down the other end of the line like he understands exactly how she's feeling.

"I'm choosing to ignore that you've been home so long and haven't called me yet on account of you being busy, Ms McHale," he teases, and Mackenzie feels something in her heart expand – like for the first time she's being tethered back home by the kind voice of a friend. She's missed talking to people who knew her before Afghanistan, people that have known her so long they see through her bravado, to her self.

"I've been looking for a job," she tells him, voice light but slightly despondent. If she'd known returning to America would lead to three months of silence and stilted apologies she'd perhaps have chosen England, or greater Europe. It's not like she expected to waltz back into a job – and to be fair she is slightly particular about who she works for – but surely two Peabody's, experience with some of the countries leading networks and two years operating out of a warzone should count for _something._

It's not like she's _not_ well known in her field.

Charlie chuckles like he has a secret and mumbles, "funny you should say that," much to Mackenzie's concern. She can remember that laugh even after three years and it has never lead to good things. Once it had ended with she and Will locked in an office overnight; another with Elliott covering the entire shows broadcast from the square outside the building. Now and she's sure Charlie's news is not going to be good news, so she simply sighs and settles at her kitchen bench with a pen and pad of paper and offers a tentative, "go on?" whilst expecting the worst.

Nothing could have prepared her for his offer, however.

ooo

It's not that she's shocked by Charlie's request that she return to NewsNight.

Apparently her position is available again because Don and Elliott are moving to ten o'clock and she's pleased for them, really – there was a light in Elliott that she remembers from years ago and Don was never made for working with Will. They clashed on nearly everything and it always ended with Will acting surly and Don punching walls behind his back.

So NewsNight needs a new executive producer and Charlie's offering her the position along with any staff she might want to bring and the assurance that the transition will be smooth and that she'll be running the show she basically started in the first place. The offer's almost too good to be true – and that's the problem.

There's only one factor remaining unaccounted for and that's the one man she can't stand to disappoint.

"Are you sure Will is okay with this?" she begs Charlie, stomach turning over as the old man runs her through the job. He hums and sighs and tries to edge around the question and that's an obvious answer – Will doesn't know anything about it – and Mackenzie had promised herself when she returned that she wouldn't follow him without his consent.

"Charlie, I can't," she pleads.

"Will just needs someone to sort him out."

"It's not that," she mumbles, interrupting, and there's a pause as Charlie waits for her to explain more. Mackenzie closes her eyes and tries to blink passed the memory of Will's eyes blown wide and shocked and horribly broken – but it's etched into her soul like the smell of new ink is, or the tap of fingers on a keyboard is (like the stink of burnt flesh and the rapid ping of gunfire and the hot, curling pain of a knife).

"Mackenzie I don't know what happened between you two but surely it's not so terrible that it can't be fixed," and she scoffs, wishes Charlie could understand without her telling him, "And I need you to fix it," he continues. He drops his voice until it's low and knowing and adds, "You're the only one who can really get to him," and she feels a little sick at the words.

Charlie's correct, of course. Apart from their romantic relationship remains the fact that she and Will work together almost intrinsically. They have ever since she first landed a job at NewsNight, even before she was his executive producer – they disagree on almost everything but that keeps the debate alive and fresh and they've always respected each other.

And she wonders idly if that respect remains.

The trust is gone, most certainly – the kindness and the humour and the intimacy too. But she loves him like she did yesterday, and the day before, and the year before that and every time in between. He's woven into her heart like a second soul and she'll never be rid of him.

But she refuses to hurt him again and if that means never seeing his eyes or his lips or his fingers, well, she earned that fate the first time she picked up a call from Bryan.

"Ask him, please," she begs Charlie later. She phones him mid afternoon and whilst her old friend tries to bribe her teasingly she's adamant that she's not moving until Will has been informed. "Please, Charlie. Just talk to him."

There's a long silence and then a sigh, "Okay. I'll talk to him first."

ooo

When Charlie rings back a day later with the news the Will is ready and willing, she feels both lax and relieved and confused and tentative, but also rolling waves of terror.

"Okay," she murmurs, overwhelmed, and Charlie sounds almost delighted when she assents.

Over the next week she and Jim cobble together a crew and make flight plans and look at apartments and scratch out a list of objectives and the entire time Mackenzie refuses to answer questions about Will.

She disappears for three days without a word and when upon her return Jim shows her the video of Will at Northwestern with a raised eyebrow – _this is the guy we're going to work for_, is his unspoken question, _really?_ – she merely nods and closes the laptop and murmurs that he was always at his best when he was defending something he loved.

She can't sleep the following night for a completely different reason. Will's figure in a blue shirt and black blazer and his presence and deep voice and eyes are burnt new and bright into her soul. Seeing him again has set her nerves on fire.

"You ready?" Jim asks days later as they board a flight to New York, and she nods with a mix of excitement and terror, following him again into the fray.

ooo

"I'm going to find someone to tell us where to go," Jim mutters after they've been standing in the ACN lobby for five, silent minutes.

Mackenzie can't keep her eyes off the giant poster of Will hanging behind one of the main desks but she can feel Jim's eyes on her every time he glances worriedly in her direction. He doesn't know anything about her past with Will but he understands that she's nervous about coming here. She'd shredded three napkins at the small café they'd eaten lunch in before Jim had placed his hands over hers and held them tight.

"No, I know where to go," she murmurs, without taking her eyes from Will's well defined face. Jim catches her elbow in his palm and forcibly turns her towards him and it's only when his familiar, cool green eyes meet hers that she feels her body return completely.

"Are you okay?" he presses, and she nods quickly, trying not to let her whole body shake.

She'd actually like to curl up in a ball in the corner and maybe cry a little but that really wouldn't be a good first impression and Jim has always been charitable, but even that might be a bit too much for him.

"How about you head upstairs," he suggests, "I need to make a phone call and that will give you some time to," and he pauses, as if he's debating the best way to phrase her sudden terror, "finish your break down?" he finally decides, and Mackenzie glares at him, annoyed.

She's always appreciated his ability to call her out on her shit – to tease her when she's scared, or upset and when he knows it will help her mood.

"Fine," she mumbles, and pushes at his shoulder.

He swings away from her with a small smile and she can't help but return it, _bastard_; that was probably his intention all along.

He stops her at the last moment with a fingertip poking her shoulder – "You'll be fine," he tells her with warm eyes and it's the millionth time he's muttered the sentiment to her.

Like always, she half believes him. Well, just enough to get her through the door.

ooo

She steps into the newsroom and everything is exactly where she remembers it – the desks and the televisions and the same coloured carpet. There's nothing like being here, and already her body's starting to calm; there's only a handful of people at the desks – _weird_, she thinks offhandedly – but the place still hums with the same comforting sense of electricity and intellect.

And then Will walks through the doors and suddenly his cold, dark eyes are not what she expected and she realizes that nothing, absolutely nothing, can ever actually be the same.

She follows him into his office and attempts to smile and then everything goes to shit.

ooo

_Mid-broadcast Charlie finds a young lady in the newsroom and informs her, "We're doing this whole broadcast on the fly. Will doesn't have a rundown, it's the EP's first show and she's got the whole thing in her head – she's the only one who knows where we're going next. It's a feat that requires incredible trust between the anchor and the EP. Say all that!"_

_The young lady leans close and replies, "I can only use 140 characters."_

_And Charlie thinks fuck that, as long as Mackenzie and Will understand what they're doing, his job tonight is done._

ooo

"That was cruel."

It's late and Will's already gone home and Mackenzie is still holding her folio tight in her arms. She's leant against the doorframe of Charlie's office and despite the euphoria of a well broadcast show and the strange delight in seeing Will's smile when he'd relayed that wonderful afternoon with her parents, she can't help the strange churning in her stomach at the thought of all that has happened.

"You shouldn't have lied to us," she adds, and Charlie glances up and pierces his forehead like he's confused. Mackenzie wonders if he really doesn't know what she's talking about, or if he's playing a game of ignorance in his own defense.

"Why would you tell me he wanted me here? And why wouldn't you tell him I was coming?"

She steps forward and closes the door with a soft hitch of the latch and when she turns back Charlie's face is less confused – he looks somber and even a little ashamed and she can't help but think _good, so you should be._

"Mackenzie," he tries to reason, but she cuts him off before he can begin.

"You don't know what happened between us Charlie. It wasn't some stupid breakup – it wasn't mutual or well thought out. It was _horrible_. I hurt him. And I promised myself I wouldn't come back here unless he asked me first."

She feels so stupid and ashamed for believing it. When they'd arrived in the morning she'd been nervous but it had been muffled by the knowledge that Will had _wanted_ to see her. Had wanted to work with her again – wanted to share her thoughts and views and time. She should have known that it was all to good to be true – what she did was beyond forgivable and she's so _stupid_ for believing that Will would want her back.

Charlie is still and silent in his chair but he's wearing a small smile alongside his stupidly bright bow tie and Mackenzie can feel all her anger drain from her body – she's just so bloody exhausted by everything. She wants to stop feeling it all long enough to fall asleep.

"The show was good tonight," he tells her pointedly, and Mackenzie shrugs – honestly she doesn't care what state the show was in. She just wants to go home, and find another job.

"Of course it was good," she does say, however. At least it's nice to know that she and Will still work together like one.

"Are you staying for the week?" Charlie asks. He's leant forward whilst she was ruminating and has his arms crossed straight on the desk with his hands clasped. "I do hope you do. Tonight was the first time in a long time that I've been proud to be running this show."

"I can't hurt him Charlie," she argues, and the old man laughs.

Mackenzie bristles – he only ever does that when he feels like he has the upper hand and she dreads what ever pearl of wisdom Charlie's about to impart.

"You don't see it, do you?" he ponders, and she bites her lip to stop telling him everything – the whole bloody truth. "He's hurting Mackenzie, but he's been hurting for three years and nothing is going to make him better, but you might."

"That's ridiculous," she huffs, leaning back. She goes to argue more but Charlie raises a hand and waves it at her.

"I don't mean _romantically_. That's not any of my concern. Will's afraid, Mackenzie. He's afraid and he's lonely at the top. He needs someone who knows him and understands him to challenge him out there. I need you arguing in his corner so that he starts telling the news like you both did years ago. He's not meant to be smiling pleasantly and endearing himself to little old ladies each night – we both know he's far too intelligent for that. He's unhappy because there isn't anything meaningful in this job – but you push him to find the meaning. Already tonight he was ten times better a reporter then he's been over the past three years – and that was you."

He pauses; leans back in his chair and fixes her with a smile and arched eyebrow, like he can see right through her soul. "I know it hurts Mackenzie but you're only going to hurt him more if you don't _help_ him."

'That's bullshit," she whispers on principle, but already she knows she'll be staying the week; if not because Charlie is right then because she wants to see if he's wrong.

And for the first time in a long time she allows herself to think that maybe, just maybe, she can salvage the respect and the friendship she once treasured – and maybe one day the trust.

"'I'll see you tomorrow?" Charlie asks, and she nods with a soft blush, smiling as he beams at her, "good."

"It was still cruel," she argues, because his actions – however valiant in their plan – were horribly thought out in practice.

"I know," Charlie tells her and she wonders if he cares at all.

Some part of her wants to believe that he's only doing this to fix his news program – but a larger part knows its because he cares. Charlie's always inspired a strange sense of family within the newsroom and she can already feel it creeping back into her – clawing at her heart and begging to be let back in.

She nods at him as she leaves his office and trails her fingers along the wall down to the elevator, clutching her folio to her chest with the other.

It's been such a strange, long, entirely exhausting day and she can't wait to find her pillow.

When she returns home she barely has the energy to undress and within minutes she's settled safe and warm beneath the blankets. She breathes deep and steady and feels her head grow heavy and before she knows it's she's asleep.

She wakes and it's morning and already there's a message from Will – the first written contact they've had in years, and she thinks that if she can keep going to work each morning, keep arguing in his corner and fighting for the facts and putting together good shows – then the sleep and the ease and the trust will come in time.

"They're very young," is the first message on her phone from Will and she can imagine perfectly his drawn, disdainful frown.

She laughs all the way to the shower.


End file.
